


Pretence

by orphan_account



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Romance, Stream of Consciousness, pretentious drivel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27281713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There are certain pretences in Adam and Nate's relationship. (Adam/Nate, angst, romance, a little fluff too)
Relationships: Adam du Mortain/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell, Adam/Nate, Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell/Adam du Mortain
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Pretence

**Author's Note:**

> abandoned scraps of an adam/nate fic i can't seem to finish. i didn't know what to do with this, but it seemed a waste not to put it somewhere. idk if anyone wants to adopt it and turn it into something better, feel free, it might as well get used for something i guess. also the endearments nate uses all mean "darling" or "love" in some form or fashion, i probably could have been a bit more creative but i didn't want to stray too far and have him say something wrong lol anyway i hope somebody gets a little enjoyment out of this! be safe, everyone <3

As always, it starts like this:

Adam and Nate, sitting together in a room. The sun could be shining, or rain might pound the window-panes. Nate has a book--he always has a book, and sometimes Adam does, too, or he's staring out into the darkness of the night, mentally dissecting their last mission, forever trying to improve their team dynamics.

But then. A feeling, a jolt of something underneath his skin. Adam looks at Nate. Nate is looking at him.

The tension. It sets Adam's blood aflame. He can hear it rushing in his ears. He swallows hard, watches Nate's eyes flicker languidly to the movement of his throat.

Nate's eyes. Normally so gentle, so kind--on days or nights like this, they are dark, smouldering, consuming. Like he could look at Adam forever and never have enough. It's heady. It's frightening.

(Nate is one of the only people that Adam is truly afraid of.) 

_It's cold tonight,_ Nate might say. Or, _it's been so quiet today. I enjoy these afternoons of ours._

Simple. Innocent. He knows that when it comes to their--arrangement? relationship? secret affair? ( _as if,_ Adam would say with a scoff)--when it comes to this, he must tread lightly so as not to spook the commanding agent. 

(Adam is nothing if not commanding, even in his more... vulnerable moments. It wouldn't do to tease--at least, not yet. Not yet.)

"The weather is turning rather quickly," Nate says this time. "But it's so beautiful at this time of year."

"It is," Adam concedes, because it's true. Nate does look beautiful, framed in the fading light of an autumn afternoon. It puts threads of gold in his hair, spools of hazel into his dark eyes. (Nate could, if he wanted, take all of Adam's torn edges and sew them back together, mend the broken parts and make him like new, a tailor of the heart and soul.)

(But Adam would have to let him.)

"The air is so crisp," Nate continues, a smile curling his lips, because he doesn't mind indulging Adam's pathos, the elaborate ruse they've spun around themselves. He puts his book aside, and joins Adam by the window. "I think I'll have to wake up early tomorrow and watch the sunrise. Will you join me?"

Nate turns, looks at Adam, face full of pleasant expectation and guileless warmth. Adam take a faltering step closer, then demurs.

"I..." he forces himself to say, because Nate says it's important that they talk _at least sometimes_ , "I would like that."

That smile--the one that could illuminate any darkness, chase away any doubt, charm a miser out of his last coin and rival the breaking dawn he has just expressed the wish to see--

Nate smiles at him, warmly, gently, so beautifully that Adam's heart fairly leaps inside his chest. (How could he feel so much? How could he show so little?)

"I'm glad to hear it," says Nate, voice low with affection. "You make me very happy, old friend."

And that. That is when Adam surrenders in his losing battle, that is when he lets himself lurch forward, knees cracking in protest from the tension in Adam's body, but he doesn't care because he needs to be closer to Nate right now. 

(When doesn't he need to be closer to Nate? How close will ever be close enough?)

Their mouths meet like crashing waves, and Adam is drowning, drowning, in a sea of things he never thought to have--in feeling, in emotion, deep and profound, the strength of the bond between them, the weight of shared years and shared burdens--Nate's hands come up to cradle his face, the long musician-fingers pressing little spots of warmth into Adam's skin, while their lips dance across each other to a symphony only they can hear.

(Nate loves him.)

(It hurts to know it. It hurts to feel it. So he pretends not to.)

"Adam," Nate laughs when they part, his smile wet and rosy from kissing, "I wasn't trying to--"

"I know," Adam interrupts him, because he does know. "I. I wanted to. You. You look..."

He stops, feeling heat trickle into his cheeks. Bashfulness doesn't suit him, but alone with Nate, he can't seem to be otherwise.

Nate laughs again, infinitely more tenderly. One hand cups the back of Adam's neck. Thumb of the other hand dragging gently across Adam's chin. A bit stubbly--Adam shaves every day, but the morning seems so long ago.

"Kiss me again?" Nate whispers. Because even after all this time, even after everything they've been through, he will not assume, expect, demand. He always asks, and will not take from Adam anything but what is freely given.

(And Adam _loves_ him, but. But he can't. He _can't._ )

There is no answer, but Nate's request is fulfilled (and fulfilled again, and again, and again, Adam feels his control slipping...) and the only sound in the room besides two slightly elevated heartbeats is the soft rasp of lips and tongues against each other. Now that they are kissing, it is absolutely imperative that they do not stop kissing, and Adam hardly gives Nate room to breathe, let alone talk--a double-edged sword, because Nate does tend to spew poetry when impassioned, and Adam does enjoy the sound of Nate's voice, but why would they be talking when they could be kissing instead? Nate must satisfy himself with whatever he can manage between kisses--mostly just pointless sweet-nothings and endearments that Adam pretends to scorn.

" _Aziz-am_ ," Nate breathes when they part for air, " _Joon-am_." Adam kisses him more and is rewarded: " _Querido, mi vida. Mon âme-soeur. Mon coeur_." Again and again. " _Tesoro_ \-- _habibi_ \-- _a ghile, a luaidh, a stór_."

Adam backs Nate into a bookcase and kisses him until his words run together, until Nate is speaking nonsense, inventing new languages in his quest to encourage Adam's descent into irresponsibility--and finally stops him, hands upon Adam's cheeks once more, face flushed and eyes bright and smile blooming despite the growing darkness outside--

" _Fy nghariad_ , let me stop you now, before I'm tempted to ravish you right here in the library."

"Nate," Adam whisper-scolds, eyes darting to the door. Still closed. No sign of the others. Yet.

"I could, you know," Nate continues, smirking. "It _is_ my library, after all. Well, mostly mine. I'm more than happy to share it with you. Perhaps we'll lock the door, and I'll take you apart on the sofa, get on my knees and pleasure you with my mouth until you speak in tongues--"

"Nate!" Adam hisses again--for all he's got Nate up against a wall, Nate has a way of making Adam feel as though _he's_ the one who's cornered, he's the one who's being crowded and loomed over, despite Nate's easy, open posture. Head leaning back lazily, he looks every inch the cat that got the cream, aware of Adam's capitulation before it even happens--Adam could hate him for it, if only he didn't like Nate so much.

(If only he didn't _love_ \--)

"That would be unwise," Adam says sternly, ignoring the amusement on Nate's face, "and if we're to be foolish--"

"Is that what we're doing? Being foolish?" The question always makes an appearance, in one way or another, in varying amounts of jest, seriousness, gentleness, hurt. Adam never answers.

(Adam cannot answer. He cannot...)

Nate always asks, anyway. A test, perhaps. An opening. An opportunity for Adam to make things...

(Right? Real? Better? Worse?)

He doesn't know. He doesn't answer this time, either.

"We should go elsewhere," Adam says instead, moving back from Nate--but his hand is fisted in Nate's shirt, so for every step he takes, Nate takes one likewise, until they get to the door, and Adam's pulse thrums in his neck as if it could burst through the skin. Nate chuckles and reaches behind Adam for the doorknob.

"Where shall we go, then, my dear commanding agent? Your quarters? Mine?"

"Your room is acceptable," says Adam, not because it's further down the hall than the others, not because he wants a modicum of privacy--an illusion, at least, _merde_ but Agent Kingston must be aware of this little dance they've been doing for years, decades, a century at least--

(Does Morgan know? Would she tell Farah, the detective, if she did?)

(Would it matter? Would they... accept it?)

No time for that. The situation is urgent, and Adam marches down the hall with all the gravity he gives any other mission--the somewhat...indecent...objective of this particular one notwithstanding. Nate ushers him graciously into his room, and Adam takes the moment to let the scent of old books and antique furniture wash over him.

(For all his protestations of not missing the past, there is something to be said for Nate's taste--though it's entirely possible that Adam's fondness for the decor has more to do with the man who chose it than anything else.)

(Nate must _never_ know this. Ever.)

This is the hardest part: the interim between kissing and everything else. Adam finds himself at a loss every single time, because once he stops to think he finds it very difficult to continue. (Seized by doubts-- _you can't have doubts once you've chosen your course of action,_ he'd told Nate once. Nate had said, _but what if you change your mind?_ )

(Adam had had no answer for him.)

With the door securely locked and the curtains drawn, Adam feels a bit more comfortable, comfortable enough to stand within arm's reach of Nate, who rocks back on his heels a bit, as if it could quell Adam's nerves. Nate never brings it up--but Adam is nervous every time.

"I would offer you a drink, but I know you don't care for whiskey," says Nate. 

"That is unnecessary," says Adam. "We were in the middle of something. I seem to recall the invitation for kissing coming from you."

And kind, sweet Nate acquiesces, even if he laughs a little at the imperious tone and stern expression on Adam's face.

"You're right, of course--and you are nothing if not single-minded," he teases lightly. He puts out his hands. "But I appreciate that about you, old friend. Come, then--get your kisses, if you want them."

Adam wants them. He goes willingly into Nate's arms. 

Many nights they have spent thus--(many nights and evenings and afternoons and mid-mornings spent in each other's arms, and then afterward pretending that they didn't--somehow, they always pretend that they didn't)--over the years they have come to know each other's bodies just as well as their own. (Nate doesn't fancy being restrained--Adam favours his left side when he's tired.) This time is no different. Nate's hands, warm and clever, can undo the knots of tension in Adam's shoulders, can fit themselves around Adam's jaw as if moulded specifically for that purpose, can bring Adam to the very brink of ecstasy, to the edge of destruction at will--and Adam can draw from Nate the most beautiful of sounds, better, more moving than the sweetest music, no aria or cantata or opera could ever compare--and Nate has always been one to believe that knowledge is its own reward, a worthy goal in and of itself, and really, a hundred or so years in, Adam finds himself a most willing pupil--

Adam turns around, glancing back at Nate to indicate what he wants, and then the solid warmth of Nate's body is pressed along Adam's back, the whole length of it and then some, familiar and easy as breathing. He can't bring himself to--he has rarely ever been able to be the one doing the _ravishing_ , as Nate puts it, when it comes to their private escapades. Instead he lets himself be ravished, deafening his ears to the faint echoes of prejudices long learnt and long forgotten--and anyway Nate is so abominably talented that anyone who'd experienced his _ardeur_ , his passion, his _joie de vivre_ in lovemaking could understand Adam's position.

It's easier, somehow, when Nate's in charge. Despite Adam's white-knuckled grip on control in most situations, when they are alone, in Nate's bed, it's... different. Here, Adam is not Commanding Agent du Mortain. Here, Adam is Adam (and _aziz-am_ and _joon-am_ and _querido_ and _tesoro_ and...)

"Are you ready for me, darling?" Nate's voice is velvet-soft in his ear. "Shall I touch you more, first? Stroke you, kiss your thighs? Your--"

Adam growls at him. "Nate. Fuck me."

"As you wish," Nate says, feigning lightness, but Adam can hear the strain in his voice, the gravel interrupting the usual honey-smoothness. His breathing, rough and irregular, still admits of a soft laugh now and then--he is still teasing, still insufferable, still charming, even when fucking. He is devoted, he is dedicated, he is tireless. He is everywhere--in the room, in the sheets, in the air, in _Adam_ , filling every inch of everything with warmth and light, and Adam never realises how empty he normally feels until it's been taken away and replaced by Nate. 

( _My spirit addresses your spirit,_ Nate had once mumbled in his sleep, when the afterglow had led to him drowsing and Adam worrying, obsessing over whether he ought to leave before Nate woke.)

(He did, but only because he was afraid that he might ask Nate what he'd been dreaming about.)

(Stupid, really. It was probably just a quote from an old book. Nate spilled them the way others blurted curse words.)

(Though if Adam _really_ worked at it, Nate could blurt those, too.)

Though they have spent countless nights (and days and mornings and evenings and) thus, every time feels like the first, and the hundredth, and the last. Adam had said, with unshakable certainty, that it would _never happen again_ , _teammates shouldn't fraternise this way_ , and _what if the others found out?_ the first night they spent together. He said so again the second night, and the twelfth, and the thirty-ninth, and all the other times they'd both lost count of, until he was finally forced to stop because they'd been sleeping together on and off for seventy-six years and it was getting a _bit_ ridiculous, even for someone as stubborn as he. Each time, a continuation; each time, feeling as though they were resuming a conversation put on hold for a few moments as opposed to days-weeks-years-decades. Nate's arms are ever strong around Adam's shoulders. His skin is ever warm under Adam's hands. They fit together as though carved from the same block of stone, separated solely so they could be reunited once more, a sculpture meant to convey the nature of perfection in its sublime display of part-and-join, _part-and-join._ He drives Nate wild, and Nate drives him wild, and they are wild together, wild and _whole_. And if Nate can read in Adam's eyes the obvious and ill-concealed _adoration_ , he need not say so. And if Adam can feel Nate's utter devotion, which has come to hold him together like mortar between the stones of a crumbling castle, he need not say so. They fall, they fly together, and if Nate calls him _Adam, dearest Adam, Adam, my darling, Adam, my love_ , it need not be addressed.

Instead:

Nate lounges beside him, languid, propping his head up on one arm. His fingers trace the indentation between Adam's clavicles, pressing lightly on the tender skin there.

"Would you like to stay the night?" he asks softly.

(And normally Adam would say _no_ , but--)

(But--)

"That would be sensible," says Adam, stiff and formal. "Since we both intend to watch the sunrise."

A quick peek at Nate--Nate, who is smiling, beaming, radiance personified--Adam tears his eyes away and presses his lips into a hard line before anything can fall out, like _you are beautiful_ or _forgive me_ or _stay by my side forever, please, forever_.

"Ah," says Nate, as though Adam has just passed down some great wisdom from on high. "Very sensible, indeed. Though I admit, I wouldn't mind if you were to say that you'd spend the night just because you liked me."

Adam looks at him again, one brow arched drolly.

"Perhaps someday," he says, warmth an undercurrent in his voice, "I will."


End file.
